Darkening

Winter’s coming.  The season of staying in, thick blankets, warm socks, blazing fires or electric heaters.  Staying warm becomes an art form.   Even today, though the sun is shining, you can smell the chill in the air and feel it in your lungs.

I think of my state of mind one long winter several years ago, and am acutely aware of just how unhealthy, and unhappy, I was.  It was me as much as my surroundings.  I disconnected myself as much as I was pushed away, fairly struggled against the repelling forces in my life but used them as an excuse to be alone.  I had a particular longing for isolation, and it was given to me in spades.  It was a seductive loneliness, and a very self-indulgent one.  I’ve always been a determined optimist, even in the dead of winter, and despite my sharp memories of unhappiness, I recall the moon and stars blazing in the night sky.  Important things happened that winter.  Friendships were forged, family was lost, and everything outside of that carried an uncertain gravity. 

I still find my myself tempted by seclusion, longing to be disconnected, surrounded by water, to have tiny parts of myself swept away from all angles.  It’s in these moments that I create metaphorical islands out of everything in my life.

Indifference is what we dread.

My ability to cram things in at the last moment has not lessened.  Equally, my ability to get things done ahead of schedule has not improved.  This is something that I thought I might mature into, that would come with age- a lesson I’d hoped I would learn and actually convert into future good decisions.  But here I am- same as I ever was, pursuing pleasure like it’s my job.  Enjoying the last drop of wine in the glass; getting my hair wet at the beach and floating in the salty water; watching sunlight creep across the floor of my room, signalling a final few minutes of warm skin in a shared bed.   

It’s both detrimental to my productivity, and an innate component of myself that I’m coming to terms with.  It will probably always be part of me- part hedonist, part masochist.  Seeking pleasure, craving the outcome, knowing the consequences .  I’ll never outgrow that.

Meta

I self-reference often.  I reference other people often.  I repeat jokes, and if my audience doesn’t notice, I let them think I’m just that clever.

I received a text today saying that procrastination is what separates humans from animals.  Now, because I am feeling contrary and wish to waste time, I’m reading articles about how monkeys procrastinate.  It’s the truth, science fact, published and printed.  There is no separation between us and the animals.  If I may go “Deep Blue Sea” for a moment, I’m cooking myself in this oven.  The accelerated aging machine I’m writing about in this research proposal has just become a metaphor for my whole life.

That’s meta.

Things I could be doing....

In lieu of writing an actual post, I thought I would publish the list of subjects I compiled that I thought I might write about someday.  This is me procrastinating on schoolwork and being too lazy to actually sit down and create anything new- these are culled straight from a journal full of messy left-handed writing.

Without further ado, here are topics that may or may not appear on this blog in longer form in the future:

My neighbours fighting.

Seeing people sad in cars around you while driving.

The disappointment of friends and family- both their own disappointments, and disappointment in you.

Procrastinating. 

Back handed compliments.

Sex vs. Saturday morning.

Riding my bike

The future and uncertainty thereof.

How insomnia cured my life.  Or, how a masters program gave me insomnia that cured my hate.

Old boyfriends.  Old jobs.  Old cars.  Old friends.  New friends and another old car.

Words I like- continuum, nebula, actually and epiphany.  Words that hurt my ears- like moist.  Yick.

Dear faceless void of the internet,

Wine.  Stomping grapes, fermenting them, drinking wine and throwing it back up- all in the name of a good time.

How old wounds come back to haunt you- in yoga and in life.

Headphones make me angry.  Why won’t they stay in my ears?!?!

I'm open to suggestions on other topics, but generally when I sit down to write I have no idea what's going to come out.  So there you have it. I'm going to start working on a new list right now.....

Look, it's summer!

It's 23 degrees here and the Newfies are melting.  The men are walking around with no shirts on, their white chests reflecting the sun.  It's blinding and hilarious.

I love it here so much.  I never want to leave.

Ship of Fools

“Remember the time the boat broke down?”

“Which time?” is the simultaneous response.

My eight year old cousin Alexander runs downstairs to write out the family's nautical exploits. We hear him clatter away noisily at the computer.  After a brief silence he calls out

“How do you spell fools?”  Laughter from the dinner table.

“How do you spell adventure?”  This is promising.

“How do you spell accident?”  Oh my. 

There was the time that Uncle How got dragged along the side of the boat, half submerged, shouting expletives and clutching his eyeglasses. 

Or the time that Rob tried to launch a boat, only to discover it wouldn’t float.  The unsuccessful launch ended with a wooden plank being driven through the engine of a neighbour’s truck.  Details were scanty.

Auntie once had to swim to shore, towing the little sailboat behind her.  The mast had broken and she was being pulled by a strong current towards the ocean.  This swim involved going upstream past a fish plant, which spewed waste and guts and god knows what else into the water and, by her account, directly into her hair.

Or the time the cops got involved.  Sorry, the two times the cops got involved.  One time centered on a suspicious abandoned dory seen floating off shore.  The next- a potential disembodied hand in Murray Harbour.  After a brief period of intrigue, it turned out to be a rubber glove.  “Every damn time” Sue shouts, pounding her fist on the table for emphasis.

Sue and I share a secret laugh at the idea of joining the support group for children scarred by the memory of Seagoing Santa.   Captain Lloyd Duncan’s portrayal of a Santa gone mad was a powerful piece of work, no doubt.

And yet, we are all still eagerly anticipating the next boat outing.  Salt water runs in my newly discovered family’s veins, apparently.  Either that or a very strong rum.

The ocean, the ocean, the ocean

All week I’d felt as though something in my life was out of balance and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. It’s been grey and foggy for a long time here, which is romantic and mysterious to be sure, but also oppressive and tiring.  It can make you feel claustrophobic. Yesterday I drove out of the city and went to the beach, stood on the edge of the shore.  Within minutes all the anger, vexation and fatigue were being drawn out of me, pulled away by the tide and swept far out to sea.  I stood quietly for a long time, letting the ocean work its magic.  I timidly slipped a few fingers into a wave as it washed up around my boots, and it was frigidly cold, as the North Atlantic promises.  Swimming in the ocean here is almost unheard of.  Generally the only people that get in the water at Middle Cove, Newfoundland, are the ones swept off the beach by rogue waves, as the waters here are treacherous and unforgiving.  It's humbling. 

This one hour at the ocean side was not enough.  I boarded a boat today and set out for a whale watching tour, honestly excited by the possibility of seeing whales, but really just looking forward to getting away from the land.  What is it about the ocean?  Something about the swell of the waves, being tossed back and forth, bobbing up and down on the water that makes you feel grounded- however much of an oxymoron that may be.  Smelling the salt water, tasting it on your lips and fingers, feeling it on your skin.  I’m home now.  We did see whales, the water was satisfyingly choppy and my skin is tight and wind burned.  I can still feel the waves crashing up and down inside me, and I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in weeks. 

Dear Taurus

Birthdays are pretty important to me.  I like to make a big deal of other people’s birthdays, and I really enjoy when people make a big deal of mine.    I have, on a few occassions, missed out on people making a fuss of my birthday.  I have this bad habit of letting mail pile up in my mailbox, until it becomes so full that it spills out onto my front step.  Then I like to go through it, pick out the letters for me and stuff everything else back into the mailbox.  I'm not alone in this, my aunt does it too.  Maybe it's genetic.  Who knows.  Anyway, I have missed birthday cards, Christmas cards, heartfelt letters from friends and all other manner of greetings because of this bad habit of mine.  They invariably either get lost in the pile of flyers that accumulates or aren't received until well past their due-date.  The sentiment is still greatly appreciated, and then it's like reliving the holiday (yes, I consider birthdays to be holidays) all over again.

Taurus, the bull-headed sign, loves tactile, earthly pleasures.  Full of gentle charms, romantic and doggedly loyal, people who fall under this sign will do what it takes to get the job done.  They may come across as stubborn (see: the bull head), but they are just taking care of business in their own, methodical way.  Happy Birthday, Taurus!

Morning, afternoon, evening tea.

I come home, I turn the kettle on.  Through the front door, into the kitchen, boil water, first thing.  I pour a big pot of tea.  I drink it down, and turn the kettle back on for the next pot.  I burn my mouth on average three or four times a day on the enchanting liquid.  Green tea, black tea, fruit tea.  I boil ginger and drink it with honey.  I knock back hot water with lemon.  Next pot, keep the kettle simmering.  The windows fog up, the air is thick, the mirrors are steamy.

What is with this obsession for consuming things?  If I don’t keep myself full of tea, I’m liable to turn to worse things.  Chocolate things.  Crispy, salty things.  Alcoholic things.  So, tea it is.  It’s not necessarily bad, this particular addiction of mine, but must I always be ingesting something?  Is there a void, other than my stomach that I’m struggling to fill? 

Fatally Smitten

Fatally smitten.  That might be more fitting.  I’ve found myself both smitten and smote in a variety of ways.  Smitten.  Consumed with feeling, enamoured, joyful and absolutely batty in the most delightful fashion.  Birds sing.  Colours are vivid.  Sunsets have significance.   Then, there’s the other meaning of smitten: grievously stricken, afflicted, run through, torn asunder.  The floor collapses beneath you.  Your head spins.   Your heart drops.  And probably breaks.  Another of my favourite words: cleave.  Things are either cleaved together or cleaved apart.

 A cleaver is also a very big knife.  

I’ve delivered disastrous blows, and I’ve been on the receiving end of the injuries.  Nasty business, this love thing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvWstzEUTfU

or, maybe this one

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwnLlQ6t2uE&feature=related

Tuesdays.

She looks at the radio, vaguely noting that she’s not remotely interested in the music coming from it.  The singer vocalizes as if crying into the microphone.  This grates on the last nerve of someone struggling to procrastinate for a final few minutes.  The panic has yet to take hold.  How many sunrises can one see before insomnia fades and exhaustion sets in?  She decides to make a game of it.